A Wolf's Heart
by vaticanxcameos
Summary: John has been a werewolf for as long as he can remember; its his secret. However, things will soon change because: 1. his new flatmate is Sherlock Holmes, and 2. he is slowly falling in love with said flatmate, and his wolf isn't far behind. Johnlock and hints of Mystrade
1. A Study in Pink, One

Title: Of Consulting Detectives and Full Moons

Summary: John has been a werewolf for as long as he can remember; its his secret. However, things will soon change because: 1) his new flatmate is Sherlock Holmes, and 2) he is slowly falling in love with said flatmate, and his wolf isn't far behind.

Disclaimer: AU. All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are properties of their respective owners.

Archiving: Ask for permission.

AN: This will go episode by episode, but with major differences. Spoilers for all episodes. Also, I'm American, so if there is a word that is not right ( aka american soccer=football) please tell me. Oh! Title may change, don't know yet.

**A Wolf's Heart**

**A Study in Pink, Part One**

John Watson woke up with a snarl, and the sound of bones breaking and flesh tearing. It took him a couple minutes for him to talk down enough for him to realize he was no longer in Afghanistan and there was no reason to be in this form.

He let out a small whine before curling into a ball as much as he could, ignoring the throbbing pain in both his front and back leg; it would take a while for the energy he needed to change back.

* * *

"John? John Watson!"

John blinked into his normal senses and turned around. A large man, Stamford if he remembered correctly, slipped up to him.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford. We went at Bart's together."

So he had been correct. " Yes, hello."

"Yeah , I know, I got fat. I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

John looked down at his leg then back up. " I got shot."

"Ah. Come on then, let me buy you some tea, unless your now into coffee?"

John laughed. "Oh god, no."

After getting their tea, Mike led him to a park bench, allowing John to sit down and rest his leg.

"So you're still at Bart's then?"

"Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be...god I hate them." John couldn't help but laugh with him. "What about you? Just staying in town, getting yourself sorted?"

John scoffed. "Can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, but you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not that John Watson." His hand was shaking, again. Damn it.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

John laughed this time. "Like that's going to happen."

"You could, I don't know, get a flat-share or something."

"Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" Mike grinned. "What?"

"Well you're the second person to say that to be today?"

John looked at him. "Who was the first?"

Mike gave a wider grin. "Come on then."

The park was right near Bart's, so it was only a short walk to where Mike needed to go. He stopped in front of a lab door - which John's nose confirmed the chemicals - knocking before he stepped in.

The first thing he noticed was how different everything was, which he voiced aloud. The second thing he noticed was a tall, pale man leaning over a microscope. His first, fleeting, instinct cried 'vampire', but his nose faintly smelled two humans in the room - and the fact that vampires didn't exist.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

Maybe he was a vampire. No human voice sounded like...that.

"And what's wrong with the land line?"

"I prefer to text."

Mike sighed. "Sorry, it's in my coat."

Without thinking, John reached into his pocket. "Uh, here. You can use mine."

The man looked at Mike for a fleeting second then back to him. "Oh, thank you."

Mike waited for the man to take the phone out of his hand before speaking up. "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Wha-"I'm sorry?"

"Which one was it: Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. I'm sorry how did you-"

"Ah, Molly! Coffee. Thank you." The man interrupted, handing John his phone back before taking the cup the new woman had brought in. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working," the woman, Molly, answered.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement; mouth's too small now. How to you feel about the violin?"

The question had to be directed to him. Molly had fled the room and Mike was just sitting there, grinning. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

What the hell? He looked at Mike. "You-You told him about me?"

Mike shook his head with a grin. "Not a word."

John frowned. "Then who said anything about potential flatmates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for," the man said as he began to put on his coat. "Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

The man ignored him. " I got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We will be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

He blinked, quickly trying to process the sentences the man spoke. "Is that it?"

"Is that, what?"

"Well we just met and we're going to look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we are meeting, I don't even know your name."

The man looked him up and down before speaking. "I know your an army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you wont go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he'a an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife. I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. So much to be going off with, don't you think?" The man flashed a small smile, which John felt was fake, as he opened the door.

"The names Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two-two-one bee baker ." With a wink, he was gone.

John looked at Mike in disbelief. "Yup," Mike confirmed, "he's always like that."

What the hell.


	2. A Study in Pink, Two

Title: Of Consulting Detectives and Full Moons

Summary: John has been a werewolf for as long as he can remember; its his secret. However, things will soon change because: 1) his new flatmate is Sherlock Holmes, and 2) he is slowly falling in love with said flatmate, and his wolf isn't far behind.

Disclaimer: AU. All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are properties of their respective owners.

Archiving: Ask for permission.

AN: This will go episode by episode, but with major differences. Spoilers for all episodes. Also, I'm American, so if there is a word that is not right ( aka american soccer=football) please tell me. Oh! Title may change, don't know yet.

AN 2: I am not going to do the crime scene in this chapter, merely skimming over it. I can put it in if you want though.

AN 3: Please review! Good or bad, I don't care!

**A Wolf's Heart**

**A Study in Pink, Part Two**

When John arrived at the address and knocked on the door, he didn't know what to expect. His human nose couldn't tell him much, but he knew this was a good neighborhood - and the smell coming from the small café seemed to testify to that even more.

A cab pulled onto the curb in front of the flat and Sherlock Holmes stepped out. Paying the driver, he turned to John. "Mrs. Hudson, my landlady is giving me a special deal."

"Hello Mr. Holmes." John held out his hand and Sherlock shook it.

"Sherlock, please. Getting a special rate, here; she owes me a favor. A few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"You stopped her husband from being executed?"

Sherlock gave him a manic grin. "Oh no, I ensured it."

John gave him a startled look; who the bloody hell was this man?

"Sherlock!"

His momentary shock had distracted him enough that he didn't hear the door open. The woman, if he had to guess was Mrs. Hudson and immediately reminded him of someone's mother, pulled Sherlock into a hug. She pulled away when her attention found John.

"Well hello! Who might you be?"

Sherlock gave her a small, genuine, smile. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson."

Instead of shaking his hand, she too pulled him into a hug. "Hello! Come on in."

The flat, it seemed, was up the stairs, but Sherlock waited patiently for John to limp up. From the hallway to the flat itself, it felt like home right away. While there were still boxes and papers cluttered about the room, it was large enough for two people easily. His nose detected the weird scent of chemicals, but a quick look into the kitchen cum laboratory answered his question.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes, my thoughts exactly."

"Once everything is cleaned out-"

"I already had my things moved in-"

John looked at Sherlock; all this was his stuff? "Oh."

Sherlock nervously flittered around, putting papers into boxes and moving them - even stabbing a knife into a few. "Obviously I can straighten things up."

"Is that a skull?" John asked.'

"Friend of mine…well, when I say friend…"

"What do you think, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked, finalley breaking the conversation between the two. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it."

John frowned. "Of course we'll be needing it."

"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner's got married ones." Oh hell, she thought - "Sherlock! The mess you've made!"

Right, moving on. As Sherlock turned to his computer, John remembered something. "I looked you up on the internet last night. The science of deduction."

"What did you think?"

John couldn't help but laugh; this man had such an ego. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes. And I can read your military career by your face and your leg, and your brothers drinking habits by your mobile phone."

"How?"

Sherlock gave a smirk and looked back to his computer.

"What do you think about these suicides Sherlock? Thought that'd be right up your alley. Three exactly the same."

"Four. There's been a forth, but there is something different this time."

"A fourth?"

John was about to ask the same thing when it hit him. Even in his human form, werewolves extruded power that could be detected even if he was blind, deaf, and couldn't smell. His wolf stood in the back of his mind; hackles raised and a growl at it's lips.

A man swept into the flat, out of breath and looking haggard. He had to be in his mid-forties, if John could guess, with silvering hair.

"Where?" Sherlock asked immediately.

The man barely gave him a glance before looking at Sherlock. "Brixton; Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave a note? This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock scowled. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"But I need an assistant!"

The man seemed to ignore that statement, as if it came out of Sherlock's mouth all the time. "Will you come?"

"Not in the police car, I'll be right behind."

The man sighed in relief. "Thank you."

Once again, the man barely gave John a glance before he left and disappeared down the stairs. Did he even notice John was like him? Or was he still new to being a wolf he wasn't used to his senses?

"What was that?" He asked Sherlock, beyond confused.

Sherlock grinned at him in excitement. "Brilliant! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John! Have a cup of tea, and make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" With that, Sherlock swept out of the flat, the door closing behind him with a slam.

Dear god, who was that man?

"Look at him, rushing about. My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest that leg."

"Damn my leg!" The stress and anger that had put him on edge caused by the other wolf spilled over, though he instantly regretted it. "Sorry. I am so sorry. It's just sometimes this stupid thing…"

Mrs. Hudson gave him a warm smile. "I understand. I have a hip."

John sighed and ran his hands over his face, listening as Mrs. Hudson made her way downstairs. He had seen more crazy things in the past ten minutes than he had in a week over seas.

The day's paper crumbled as he sat down in the nearest chair. He would have ignored it, if he hadn't seen the man's face that had just spoken to Sherlock. 'DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation,' the caption said.

"You're a doctor." Sherlock's voice came from the doorway, startling John; he hadn't even heard him come home. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

John's eyes furrowed in confusion. "Yes?"

"Any good?"

"Very."

"You've seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths."

"Yes."

"A bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough, for a lifetime. Far too much." Where was he going with this?

"Want to see some more?"

John grinned and stood up. "Oh god yes." He happily followed Sherlock out the door and down the stairs, shouting at Mrs. Hudson that he was leaving too.

"Both of you?" She asked, coming out of her flat.

"Possible suicides, four of them. There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock said with a grin, planting a kiss on her cheek.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue in disappointment, but there was a small fighting to come through. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

John couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's child-like excitement. He couldn't believe he was following this lunatic.

Once in a taxi, Sherlock started texting frantically on his phone, fingers flying a mile a minute. Without even looking at him, Sherlock gave a sigh and spoke. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"A crime scene. Next."

Right, okay. "Who are you, and what do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective…"

"But?"

"Police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

Right, this man sure has an ego. "Police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock gave him a smirk, looking him up and down, just like he did at Bart's. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, when I said Afghanistan or Iraq you look surprised."

"How did you know?" John asked - like he would ever forget that moment.

"I didn't know, I saw. The haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. By your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Your face is tan, but no tan below the wrists says you were abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it. So it's at least partially psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, sun tan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You have a psychosomatic limp; of course you have a therapist. And then there is your brother."

"Hm?"

Sherlock pointed to the phone in his hand, which he handed over. "Your phone's expensive: email enabled, mp3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share; you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

Sherlock flipped the phone over, showing the words carved in the back. "The engraving?" John asked.

"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live; unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

John looked at him, surprised etched on his face. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge, but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

"_I _was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

John opened his mouth, then closed it, gathering his thoughts. "That…was amazing."

Sherlock looked at him, his face blank but there was shock in his eyes. "You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath. "'Piss off'"

John couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

Less than an hour later, after an extraordinary deduction on the crime scene, John was standing in an alley across from a very posh house, minus Sherlock - the man had swept out of the crime scene and promptly disappeared. John went back to his flat, and packed a bag before leaving. Finding a good place, he shifted and began to hunt.

It was difficult to find the right trail that led to Lestrade's home, as the man was a cop and seemed to be every where in the city. But John had been a wolf for many years. He had been surprised, though, to find the trail had led to a part of London that housed people of the more wealthy status. Finding another good spot, he shifted back and put the clothes on he had brought, slipping his gun under his jumper - he might be a wolf, but he still felt comfortable with the weight of his gun at his back.

It wasn't until the wee hours of the morning when Lestrade at came home. At first John thought the man hadn't seen him, as he didn't even look In John's direction, but then he left the gate and the door open. John's shoulder and leg were aching something fierce because of the shift, so it took him a little longer than usual to get inside the door.

The inside was something he was not expecting; soft, warm colors and mismatched furniture greeted him instead of a lifeless home.

"The house is my mate's." Lestrade said as he walked out from the kitchen, carrying two cups of steaming liquid. He handed John one and motioned to the living room. "I wouldn't move in unless I got to redecorate."

John sat down on one of the few chairs, easing the weight off his leg. "So you knew, then?"

Lestrade chuckled and nodded. "Of course. I sensed you the moment I stepped out of my cruiser. How long then?"

"Nearly thirty years now."

Lestrade swore. "You couldn't be no more than thirty-five! Are you natural?"

John chuckled. "I'm thirty-nine, but thank you. No, I was attacked when I was ten, a day before my birthday, actually - happy birthday to me." He said, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder. He was lucky, they had said. He just found it lucky that the bullet wound covered up the old scars.

"Damn. Do you know who did it?"

John shook his head. "Not a clue. What about you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I'm a natural; mum was one, dad was not. Mum was always the strong and stubborn one, figured her genes would be too."

John couldn't help but look at the man in awe. Purebred, pure's, naturals, whatever you felt like calling them, were rare. So rare, that if two wolves mated and had a child, said child only had a one percent chance of being a wolf - the percent halved if one parent was human. John had met only ten wolves in his life, and none of them were or knew a natural.

Lestrade laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen a wolf so shocked."

"I figured you'd be more…"

"Prissy?" Lestrade finished, not even the slightest offended. "I don't think I could ever do that. My mate's enough for the both of us. Now, about you being here."

John winced; he should have seen this coming. This was Lestrade's territory, and John was trespassing. "Right. Give me a few days and I can be out of your hair."

"Woah! Hold on! I wasn't going to suggest that! I was just going to give you some places you could safely go and shift when you needed to."

"Oh." John couldn't stop the blush that spread through his cheeks. "Sorry."

"It's fine. I'm guessing your used to wolves that go by pack hierarchy still?"

John nodded. He had lived with a small pack with his mentor when he was trained. He figured all wolves were like that.

"It's not like that here. While we do have a few scuffles and a few wolf gangs, there is no hierarchy. We are not going to kick you out of London because your not of pack."

"How many of us are there then?"

Lestrade thought about that for a moment. "I think there are thirty of us now, and there are a few that visit London on vacation periodically."

John couldn't help but be shocked. While the number of wolves have grown in the past decade, most live near woods, forests, and other unpopulated areas. The only time he had ever seen a wolf in the city, was when he was twelve and the wolf was a homeless loner.

Lestrade grinned at the shocked looked, like he was expecting it. "Why don't you go home and sleep on it, let your body process it all. When I get off, I can show you the good spots around town, how does that sound?"

John nodded and set down his cup as he stood up, which he realized he hadn't even taken a sip of. "Thank you."

"Of course. Good night John."

As John walked out the door, he found out he wouldn't be home that night.


	3. A Study in Pink, Three

Title: Of Consulting Detectives and Full Moons

Summary: John has been a werewolf for as long as he can remember; it's his secret. However, things will soon change because: 1) his new flat mate is Sherlock Holmes, and 2) he is slowly falling in love with said flat mate, and his wolf isn't far behind.

Disclaimer: AU. All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are properties of their respective owners.

Archiving: Ask for permission.

AN: This will go episode by episode, but with major differences. Spoilers for all episodes. Also, I'm American, so if there is a word that is not right (aka American soccer=football) please tell me. Oh! Title may change, don't know yet.

AN 2: Please review! Good or bad, I don't care!

AN 3: I have no Beta, so unless you want to be mine, all faults are my own.

**A Wolf's Heart**

**A Study in Pink, Part Three**

He didn't think anything of it, when the public phone rang. It could have been pranksters, a number typed wrong, or anything of that nature. It was a fleeting thought in his mind as he walked passed. As he tried to hail a taxi, the phone rang in a Chinese restaurant, stopping before a man could pick it up. Then another public phone rang, and he knew it couldn't be coincidence.

"Hello?"

"_There's a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"_

John frowned. "Who is this? Who's speaking?"

"_Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"_

At the mention of his name, his wolf bristled and his eyes sought out the camera. "Yeah, I see it."

"_Watch." _And just like that, the camera moved. Not something subtle, but completely so that it was now pointed away from him and onto the street.

"_There's another camera on the building opposite of you. Do you see it? And finally, at the top of the building to your right."_

John watched at both moved away from him. "How are you doing that?"

"_Get in the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."_ With that, the man on the phone hung up.

A black car, a fancy one that John couldn't think the name of, pulled up to the curb in front of him. A man, harmless looking but John knew better, stepped out of the passenger side and opened the back. A silent order. John was trapped, with an enemy who had control of the network and he had no name of.

Thankful for the gun still at the small of his back, although it might not be of use at the moment, he silently slid into the car, the door closing behind him. He was surprised to find he was not alone in the back. A human woman - they were all human in here - sat beside him, typing fast on her BlackBerry. She was gorgeous, with wavy brown hair and a tan complexion, but something in her body told him she was very off limits. Which the wolf agreed and John ignored.

"Hello. What's your name, then?"

She didn't even look up from her phone, but there was a humorous smile on her face. "Umm, Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

"No."

Figures. He was so bad with women.

The rest of the ride was silent. It was nearly an hour drive, and he could have fallen asleep if his senses weren't on high alert. The car eventually stopped in an old warehouse. It was empty, save for a man leaning against an umbrella and a chair.

When John stepped out of the car and was close enough, the man spoke. "Have a seat, John."

So this was the man who had called him, and John knew exactly who it was. "You know, I've got a phone. It's very clever and all, but you could just…phone me…on my phone."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. The leg must be hurting you, sit down."

John nearly growled at the man; he was not a dog. "I don't want to sit down."

The man smirked. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man gave a small chuckle. "Yes. The bravery of a soldier." The smile disappeared. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

A yes, his crazy sort-of-not-flat mate. "I don't have one; I barely know him. Met him…yesterday."

"And since yesterday you moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy enouncement by the end of the week?"

John nearly growled again; this man was getting on his nerves. "Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing your not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy?"

"Enemy?" Alright, this was a little bit odd. He has never made an enemy who was the enemy of a man he just met.

"In his mind, certainly. If you ask him, he would say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

John couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes. "Well thank god your above all of that."

The man gave him a condescending look, but John ignored it as he phone went off. Brining it out of his pocket, the looked at the text.

_Baker Street._

_Come at once_

_if convenient._

_SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

He looked at his phone again - how the hell did Sherlock get his number - before putting it away. "Not distracting me at all."

"Do you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

John couldn't help but let some of his other half bleed through. "It really couldn't."

"If you do move into, um," the man paused, reaching into his pocket to bring out a small pad, "two hundred and twenty-one bee Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?" John grounded out.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable with. Just, tell me what he's up to."

This time, John did growl as he let his wolf out. "You and your mate need to stay out of my life."

The man's face closed up, but his eyes betrayed him - surprise, with a small hint of fear. "Ah. I should have known. Gregory had called me earlier about a new wolf. Though he definitely did not tell me you were with Sherlock."

"And you know what I can do, what _my kind _can do."

"Yes."

It was illegal to kill another wolf's mate, punishable by death unless provoked. The mate's of wolves, just like werewolves themselves, gave off a presence that screamed both 'mate' and the name of said wolf they were mated to. John had detected both as soon as he stepped out of the car.

His phone beeped again, and he didn't hesitate to bring it out.

_If inconvenient,_

_come anyway._

_SH_

He couldn't help but smirk. His new flat mate was interesting. "Good." His phone beeped again.

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

With a sharp smile that showed of his fangs, he limped back to the car.

* * *

When John entered the flat, he found Sherlock lying on the couch, his hand pressing against his other arm. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock lifted his sleeve slightly and showed off his arm. "Nicotine patch. Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

John snorted. "Good news for breathing."

"Ugh! Breathing! Breathing is boring!"

John shook his head in disbelief as he walked over to the man. His arm was halfway covered by his hand, but he could still see what was on it. "Is that three patches?"

"It's a three patch problem. Can I use your phone?"

"My phone?" John asked in disbelief.

"Always a chance my number will be recognized; it's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah she's downstairs. I tried yelling but she didn't hear."

"I was on the other side of London!"

"Yeah, no hurry."

With a growl - he seemed to be doing that a lot these days - he dug his phone out of his pocket and slapped it into Sherlock's waiting hand. He sat down in the chair closest to Sherlock, trying to control his anger.

"Is this about the case?"

"Her case," Sherlock breathed out, putting his hands together under his chin.

"Her case?"

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase from her. First big mistake."

"Okay. He took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it. On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

John wondered if he wolf could get a headache too. "You've brought me here, to send a text."

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." John heaved himself up with a sigh and took his phone back. Making his way to Sherlock's desk, there must have been something in his posture because Sherlock continued speaking. "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?"

"An enemy," John clarified.

"Oh! Which one?" Sherlock asked, his voice betraying how not very surprised he was.

"Well, your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?"

Sherlock looked over at him. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No…"

Sherlock hummed in disappointment. "Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

Uh huh. "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number!"

John sighed. It took him a few moments, but he finally found the stupid paper with the number; Sherlock was seriously the messiest person he had ever met. Opening a new text message, he began to type in the number when he realized there was a name on said paper.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

A few milliseconds of blessed silence. "Have you done it yet?"

"Ye-hang on!"

And Sherlock promptly ignored him. "These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'"

"You blacked out?"

"What? No... No!" Sherlock leapt off the couch quickly, climbing over the coffee table to disappear from John's vision. "Type and send it. Quickly. Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

Sherlock reappeared in his vision, carrying something. "22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!"

With a roll of his eyes, John finished the text and turned to Sherlock - and a very pink case. "That's... That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously. Oh, perhaps I should mention - I didn't kill her."

John frowned. "I never said you did."

"Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and then, yes."

John couldn't help but roll his eyes. Sherlock was a genius, and a little bit crazy, but a murderer? No. Something told him Sherlock wasn't even close.

"Okay. How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention - particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" God, this man was a genius.

"It had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's sarcasm. "Because you're an idiot." John looked at him sharply. "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one, you just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home?"

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."

Ah yes, that was right. He remembered Sherlock deducing the lovers by the ring on her finger. Then it hit him. "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is where is her phone _now_?"

"She could have lost it."

"Yes. Or?"

"The murderer! You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she...left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

It didn't matter. Back up, rewind, whatever. "Sorry...what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

His phone began ringing, and a quick glance showed the number was being withheld. Sherlock gave him a smirk. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer... would panic."

As quick as lighting, Sherlock closed the case and was up, putting on his jacket and scarf. John turned to him.

"Have you talked to the police?"

"So why are you talking to _me_?"

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," Sherlock said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well. you could just sit there and...watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?" John asked in complete disbelief.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?"

"She said...you get off on this. You enjoy it."

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "And I said 'dangerous', and here you are."

John let out a mixture of a laugh and a growl as he leapt to his feat. "Damn it!"


End file.
